Weakness
by Pennhothwen
Summary: Can Tom resolve the inner conflict that torments him? Paris/Kim. *SLASH*


Title: Weakness (WIP)

Author: Penn

Feedback: yes please, and if anyone would lke to beta this, please let me know. Beta offers and feedback to: doxsey33@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek in any of its various incarnations. All I own is the fire ant colony in my pants pocket. So if you sue me, that's what you'll get.

It's brimful of angst – just to warn you. And it's not really finished yet, so suggestions are welcome.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Tom sat, his head in his hands. The last time this had happened, he'd been able to write it off to having had one too many drinks at Sandrine's. But now, as he turned, gazing over his shoulder at the sleeping figure in the bed, he knew that this time, there was no one to blame but himself. His mind wandered, reliving the incidents that had gotten him to this point. 

It had been much the same, at first, as the last time, with Ensign Mulcahey. A few months ago, he'd been in the mess hall eating lunch alone when Mulcahey had come over and invited him for a friendly game of pool at Sandrine's that night. Of course he'd said yes. Pool at Sandrine's – who wouldn't?

As the night wore on, they'd both gotten more than a little drunk. Tom had been too thick to realize what Mulcahey meant when he asked Tom if he'd like to come back to his quarters.

It wasn't his first time: there had been Auckland. But prison had been nothing like this – this time, he'd gone willingly. He'd _wanted_ Mulcahey. That had never happened before, and Tom refused to believe it would ever happen again. When he'd woken up naked in Mulcahey's bed – in his arms – he'd panicked, blamed it on too much synthehol, and fled, leaving the younger man hurt and confused. Tom swore to himself that it wouldn't happen again. Never again.

But here he was, sitting on the edge of another man's bed, wrapped in nothing but a sheet. He rubbed his eyes, cursing himself for his weakness. Why? Why had he let this happen? And of all people, why with his best friend? Why with Harry?

It began innocently enough. Harry had invited him along for dinner yesterday after their bridge shift. Nothing so odd about that – he and Harry often ate together. Besides, B'Elanna and a few others were supposed to show up, too: just a normal, everyday social occasion.

Dinner had been uneventful, and Tom had gladly accepted Harry's invitation back to his quarters for a game of cards. They'd played a few rounds, and they'd gotten to talking. At first it was nothing serious, just idle talk about their families, Captain Proton, ship'd gossip... simple things. It had felt comfortable. Safe. Before he knew it, Tom was telling Harry things about himself he'd never wanted to share with anyone... and Harry had listened, without judgment, without accusation, without blame. Just listened, and offered nothing but complete acceptance. And then...

The soft sound of indrawn breath brought Tom back to the present. He looked Harry again. So sweet – beautiful, even – gods, he was beautiful. Tom wanted him, even now. This was no mere passing interest... No. He pushed the thought away, refusing the implications.

Harry stirred, galvanizing Tom into motion. He forced himself to his feet, willing himself to move toward the door. He couldn't be here when Harry woke; maybe they could just forget this, if he could just be gone before – 

"Hey," a sleepy voice broke the silence of the room. "You're still here." Harry's voice carried in it surprise, gratitude – more than Tom could stand to hear just then. Yet he stood, mesmerised by the sound of that voice. It continued to hold him enthralled, washing over his ragged soul in soft waves. "I hoped you would be." He could hear the bedsheets rustle as Harry sat up. "Tom? Are you okay?" So soft, like the voice of an angel. What right did he have to spoil such perfection? Tom closed his eyes as tears came unbidden, tracing paths of regret as they escaped his downturned lashes.

"Tom?" He felt Harry's hands on his shoulders, sliding down his arms, encircling his waist. He dared not turn to face him: he had to leave, couldn't let himself accept this offer of solace – 

Whatever shred of resolve he might have clung to evaporated as Harry's hand left his waist to travel upward, brushing the tears from his face. "You're crying... what's wrong?" He could not resist as Harry turned him, pulling him close. "Why, Tom?" So soft... maybe he really was an angel...

"Harry," he whispered. "I can't."


End file.
